


A Brief Summary of Sherlock's Early Life

by Sherlock_Kitty



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-23
Updated: 2013-05-23
Packaged: 2017-12-12 17:20:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/814054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sherlock_Kitty/pseuds/Sherlock_Kitty





	A Brief Summary of Sherlock's Early Life

                Sherlock had always wished to be a pirate. This was something his family would never let him live down. The lifestyle fascinated him; commanding a huge vessel, responsible for so many lives, armed with the ability to take just as many lives away, rocking back and forth in a shaky wooden structure with so many variables, all too easily able to crash and burn, or collapse and drown. There would always be adventure. Nothing was ever the same from one day to another with the flux of the sea surrounding him from all sides.

                This was an irrational dream, of course. His parents had sent him to a physiatrist when he turned thirteen and was still serious about his career choice. This, of course, did nothing but scar him and make him shy away from sharing anything, knowing there was no pleasing his family. He had notebook upon notebook of stories and drawings, ideas and fantasies that he kept hidden under his bed. He doodled in them in the middle of class; the blank white sheets of paper were his wide open seas, and his pens were his shipmates. He was the captain, and with a flick of his wrist, anything he said would be true.

                Closing himself from the outside world was nothing short of tedious. Parents, peers, teachers, and therapists all tried to push themselves into the world he’d created for himself in an attempt to get a glance at the mind of the young genius. Sometimes, he did show them his world. He had all the maps of his world drawn out in his mind, and everything fit into place just perfectly for him. When he explained everything in vivid detail to those who gained his trust, though, all he received in return were confused gazes and awkward glances.

                His third year teacher, Ms. Roylott, had possibly the most diligent of all attempts to figure him out. She was patient, in her mid-forties, with a twenty-year-old daughter who had moved to Wales and cut off all communication with her, one ex-husband, one late husband, and three cats. She listened to Sherlock with the widest eyes when he spoke, and at one point he stayed inside the classroom every day while all the other children were swinging on the playground or eating their lunch. She found his stories thrilling, and she frowned, smiled, and gasped in all the right places. After one story, where Captain Holmes heroically defeats the lethal spiders overrunning an island they’d sailed by, she laughed. 

                She quickly apologized, and said she hadn’t meant it in a mean way. She was just thinking that his mind was a sort of palace. He was the leader, and he knew all the right steps to the palace. It was his choice whether or not he told others how to get into the palace and he controlled everything that happened inside the palace. He told her that he preferred his mind to be like a pirate ship that only he knew how to sail. He could make anyone be a sailor, or his slave, and he could even make anyone walk the plank. She looked at him with a concerned expression, the one that every adult gave him when he'd let them see too much.

                From then on, he played outside on the playground and said nothing more about his fantasy land. He played by himself because no one would speak to him. He was constantly teased by a boy a few years above him named Jim. He didn’t care that he was teased and laughed at, he only cared when he was hurt, and he was very often hurt by his peers. His teacher was always concerned when she saw a new bump or bruise on him. She called his parents in once, and they all had what Mummy called a ‘serious talk’ after all the other children had gone home. Sherlock was sent out of the room, told to play outside with Mycroft, who had tagged along for no reason Sherlock could figure out other than to pester him. Mycroft didn’t say much, though, and they did not play outside as they were told. They both listened closely with their ears pressed against the door. They didn’t hear much, only Daddy yelling over and over “we do not hurt our sons!” like some angry chant, the more he said it the more likely she was to believe it. After Daddy had settled down, his teacher and Mummy did the rest of the talking. Their voices were hushed as they were, and through the door, the boys had no chance of hearing them, but he could only guess that his teacher had told them every bad thing Sherlock had said.

                That happened in June, and Sherlock didn’t speak to his teacher ever again.

                The bitter memories never left him. The shame was all he felt now. He’d taken it all so seriously, thought he actually had a chance, and no matter how young he was at the time, he couldn’t help feeling like a fool whenever he ran across someone from his past. Now, at twenty-four, Sherlock was determined never to speak to any member of his family again. Mycroft kept close tabs on him, though, as he did on everyone. That didn’t mean the younger Holmes child had to respond to the attention.

                He was in his last year at Uni, and he still didn’t have a clue what he was going to do with his major in criminology. Greg lived in the dorm across from Sherlock, and promised to let him know if he had any mysteries that Sherlock would be able to solve that the police couldn’t, because he was planning to work for Scotland Yard. Sherlock knew, though, that maintaining a lasting job would be difficult for him. He’d have to get a flatmate, but there wouldn’t be difficulty finding one in the busy streets of London.

                He had a meager income as a librarian, to pay for his food. He tried to rely on his estranged family as little as possible, but his father had paid for his schooling, probably only because he was relieved that he’d given up pirating. He hated his job but didn’t have much of a say in it. Every day he scanned books, picked up phones, put books on shelves, and helped people who needed help finding books. It was absolutely tedious, but he couldn’t complain, because for as little as he ate, he still needed to do it.

                He was sorting out books to put away in January, and he found himself heading towards the adventure section. It was hardly ever used, because most of the people who went to the library regularly were students like himself, so he was surprised to see someone had actually checked out a fictional novel, and he felt a lump in his throat when he read the title. _Treasure Island_. It had been his all-time favorite up until he was fifteen. As he walked to the adventure section—a single row next to the children’s section—he stared at the familiar cover, running his fingers across the surface. He was so intently focused that he almost didn’t see the man standing there, reading the back of _The Three Musketeers_.

                He muttered an apology, but John— a short, blonde military brat who couldn’t have been more than four years older than Sherlock himself—smiled and told him it was no problem. He said he’d checked out the book in Sherlock’s hand just a week ago. This piqued Sherlock’s interest and he asked who his favorite character had been.

                They talked about the characters and the plot and their favorite scenes until Sherlock’s shift ended and they talked about the various movie adaptations on their way to the coffee shop. They talked about the other patrons as they sipped their drinks. John was thoroughly impressed with Sherlock’s ability to ‘deduce’, as he liked to call it, and Sherlock gave him the brief science to it. They talked about their careers over the phone the next day. Sherlock wanted to start his own career, something that only he could do, because he could hardly imagine something as dull as working in the mainstream for the rest of his life. John wanted to be an army doctor. Sherlock didn’t mention how much he thought that fit him. They’d picked up the same books; they were both adventurous and had some odd sort of satisfaction with danger. Additionally, John would be helping people, and serving his country. Sherlock couldn’t think of a position more suitable for John.

                John talked about his family as they met near the science building after their evening classes. He told him about his sister Harry with a distant fondness. He mentioned his parents, split but civil. It was clear to Sherlock that he missed them, though he didn’t say it. Sherlock listened, mentioned that he had a brother, a mum and a dad happily married, but didn’t add any extra information about his home life.

                They talked about their future the night before their graduation. John was nervous, because he was giving a speech the next morning, and the next summer he was leaving for Afghanistan. So he snuck out of his dorm and into Sherlock’s. They didn’t do anything but lie down wrapped in each other’s presence and talk. John said that he always wanted children. Sherlock explained that he was indifferent to children, but always wanted one if only to listen to the imagination behind the small body. John said he wanted to get married. Sherlock stayed quiet, really not interested in commitment. Sherlock realised that John was worried he wouldn’t be able to fulfill these goals. Sherlock was scared too, and he told him that. Eventually, John fell asleep and Sherlock followed suit.

                Finally, finally, finally, the night they settled into their new home on Baker Street, Sherlock talked and John listened. He didn’t say a word as Sherlock explained to him the complexity of his mind, he showed him the pathways to his Mind Palace, and he told him stories conjured up from his own imagination that he had forced into dormancy years ago. John frowned, smiled and gasped in all the right places, but he did more. He spoke. He added in his alterations, his opinions, and his fantasies and together they created brilliant stories.

                On their wedding day they talked about love. The three words Sherlock had hid from for nearly his entire life now explained everything he felt, and he was drawn to those words, spoken in John’s voice, like a moth to a candle. They exchanged vows and Sherlock was overwhelmed at the power of two simple words and tears appeared in his eyes out of joy and they spoke more about love, basking in the words they could toss around so loosely.

                They talked about pirates and sea monsters and heroes and happily ever afters that came from their own imaginations to their children. By the age of four the eldest was able to add in his own alterations, his opinions, and his fantasies to the bedtime stories. By the age of seven he was reading _Treasure Island_ to the squirming girl in the crib, and Sherlock and John sat aside, letting them become wrapped in each other’s presence, only interrupting to help pronounce a word.

                Sherlock had never shut the world out; he was merely dormant, waiting for someone to come and wake him up and remind him he had no reason to fear his words, or his world. 


End file.
